


Hold It Half A Sin

by spike21



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spike21/pseuds/spike21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson couldn't countenance what George had done, but neither could he pretend he didn't understand it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold It Half A Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for S8, E18 "The Artful Detective". Contains spoilers for that episode and probably those before it.

Jackson came in early for the overnight shift. Midnight to dawn. Usually it was his favourite shift -- busy 'til three with drunks and ladies of the night and then the quiet would settle. The station house would creak and groan, the drunks would snore. The ladies would sleep pressed together for warmth and comfort. 

Not tonight though. Tonight there was only one prisoner under guard and he likely wasn't sleeping very much at all.

Mayhew was already up in the backroom when Jackson arrived. He stood at his locker packing his duffel to go home.

"You heard?" Mayhew asked him in a low voice. Jackson nodded. He'd been told more than once and all with many variations of disbelief. Of all people, some said. You never know, eh? said others. Mayhew shook his duffel angrily and spat on the floor.

"Just what we needed," he said. "Another dirty copper at Station House Four. Makes me sick."

Jackson made a noncommittal sound. He couldn't say he was happy about it himself, but he was relieved when Mayhew left, muttering about a transfer. 

Jackson unpacked his own duffel, bringing out the covered dishes, wrapped in towels that his mother gave him for dinner. The crocker is still hot to the touch..

He uncovered the mutton stew inside, thick with potatoes and carrots, and spooned it onto two clean tin plates. He pushed it to one side with a couple of slabs of fresh baked bread and added a thick wedge of yesterday's apple pie to the empty half.

"It'll fill him up and keep him warm," his mother had said when he'd explained about George. "That station house of yours is awful cold in winter."

"That it is, Ma," he'd said, and bent down to buss her cheek. He never tired of seeing her like this -- fussing over the stove, moving with brisk efficiency. She was plump now, in her middle years. Plump and pink of cheek and when she smiled it showed deep dimples. He loved her smile.

Jackson poured two mugs from the great steaming tea urn and added sugar to both -- three lumps for himself and two for Crabtree. Then he put everything on a big tray and carried it down to the lock-up.

It was bitterly cold down in the cells. It wasn't usually this bad, but with the sudden late winter freeze that held Toronto in its grip, the small aga in the corner of the room couldn't keep up. George was in cell three and Jackson could see he was shivering even from the doorway. He made a note to bring down one of the horse blankets they kept in the back. For now the hot meal and company would have to do.

George didn't look up as Jackson approached. His head hung low, arms loose atop his knees, motionless except for the faint tremor from the shivers.

Jackson set the big tray on the guard's table. Then he picked up table and all and set it down in front of cell three. George did look up then. 

Jackson had never seen a man look so deep down miserable as his friend. 

He took his own plate and mug off the tray and placed it on the table. His mother would have been aghast at the absence of napkins, but he doubted George would mind too much.

George took in the bounty of food and drink without so much as a glimmer of pleasure.

"Not hungry," he said.

"I know," Jackson answered calmly. "But you'll not hurt my mother's feelings by refusing her gift and at very least the plate and mug will warm your hands a bit." George stared at him glaze-eyed for a long moment as if his thoughts were coming very slowly. Finally he blinked and looked away. 

"Very well," he said. 

Jackson gave a satisfied nod and slid the tray through the meal slot at the base of the cell door. George pushed himself stiffly off the hard cot, picked the tray up and set it on the cot beside him. He looked at it dubiously and glanced back at Jackson.

"Go on…" Jackson gave him an encouraging nod. Resigned, George picked up the plate and put it on his knees. He sat there for a moment letting the steam waft up to his face. After a moment or two he picked up his spoon and ate a bite of the stew.

"It's good," George said quietly. "Your mother's very kind." He bit off the last word and Jackson could see his eyes were a bit wet. He looked back to his own food. 

"Yes she is," Jackson said. "I'm very fortunate to have her with me still." He felt an unexpected sting in his own eyes. He set himself to his meal, the fragrant stew, soft, yeasty bread, the luscious pie, all interspersed with slugs of hot, sweet tea. It drove away the winter chill and cheered him greatly.

George, it turned out, had been hungry after all. Ravenous, maybe. He'd eaten all the stew and even a bite or two of pie and now he cradled the still warm mug of tea between his hands, staring into its depths. He still looked like a ruined man. He'd still hang for murder most likely, if he wasn't killed in prison first for having been a copper. He was still going to be lost from them, but for the moment he had a bit of colour in his pale cheeks and a bit of the rigid set had gone out of his shoulders.

Jackson stood and picked up his plate and cup. George made to get up as well but Jackson bade him stay. He went back up the stairs and put his dishes in the sink to be washed. Then he went into the room where equipment and tools of various kinds were stored. He found two fairly clean Hudson's Bay blankets and then stopped by George's desk and picked up a dog-eared collection of penny dreadfuls.

As he passed the front counter, Constable Billings who'd taken over from Constable Hodge, gave him a warning nod. He turned and found himself face to face with Inspector Brackenreid.

"Planning to spend the night down in the cells, Slugger?" the Inspector asked, accusingly. 

"Best way to keep an eye on the prisoner, Sir," Jackson replied. "He looked pretty shattered when you took him away." Brackenreid glanced at him sharply. Neither of them voiced the thoughts that followed. Brackenreid sighed.

"I know he was your friend, lad," he said. "He was mine, too. But he's in custody now and not deserving of special favours. I saw that feast you brought down with you earlier."

"That was my dinner, sir," Jackson said. The Inspector looked skeptical.

"What about those?" He patted the blankets in Jackson's arms. "Are you going to have a jolly blanket fort and play at pirates?"

"You can see your breath down there sir," Jackson said, nudging the thin booklets between the woollen folds where they couldn't be seen. "I'd bring a blanket for any prisoner tonight. And one for myself."

Brackenreid relented.

"Go on then," he said. "Just make sure you remember why he's on the other side of those bars."

"I won't forget that, Sir," Jackson replied with total conviction. 

*

Back down in the basement, Jackson noted that George had curled up on his side on the narrow cot. His eyes were closed, he was snoring lightly under the relentless glare from the gas lamps. The cleaned plate, empty mug and tray sat neatly outside the cell door. 

Jackson watched George sleep for a moment before he put his key in the lock, Not that he was worried that George might spring up and overpower him but he'd rather save them both from the embarrassment of a surprise escape attempt. But the man's sleep was heavy and genuine, if not entirely tranquil. The worry lines above his nose had not relaxed at all. 

Jackson opened the clanking cell door as quietly as he could and draped one of the thick wool blankets over the prisoner. It was only when he tucked the penny dreadfuls under the mattess by Georges head that his colleague stirred.

"Wha..?"he said muzziily.

"Just something to read if you find yourself awake," Jackson said. George's eyes snapped open and he struggled to sit up.

"No," he said. "Stop. I don't deserve your kindness. That life is over." He sounded angry but his eyes were shiny again and red-rimmed.

"Be that as it may," said Jackson. "My kindness, as you call it, is mine to give." He gently pushed George back down again and said firmly: "And like it or not, I'm giving it to you." 

George lay his head back down and pulled the blanket tight around him. Jackson had his hand on the cell door when he heard George say brokenly:

"Jackson… why?"

He stopped for a moment, so many words and images rushing up into his mind that for a moment he couldn't have spoken if he wanted to. Mostly he thought about how his mother was now, confident and kind and gay, and how she'd been back then: haggard and flinching and so sad, even when she smiled. He shook his head to clear it, turned and looked at George over his shoulder.

"You never met my father, did you?" he said. He couldn't countenance what George had done to Archie Brooks but neither could he pretend he didn't understand it.

He waited until he saw the light dawn in George's eyes. Then he locked the cell door behind him and took up his long night vigil at the guard's desk by the stairs.

 

***

end

**Author's Note:**

> This story is un-betaed and probably full of horrible typos and comma splices and for that I apologize. Ijust had to get something out so my heart could stop breaking for a while. Oh, _George..._


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